


For He is an Artist. For I am a Painting

by Islandic_Princess



Series: Prompt Writings [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islandic_Princess/pseuds/Islandic_Princess
Summary: Third Pov until the very last paragraph





	For He is an Artist. For I am a Painting

For he was an artist. With each step, a cascade of colors, both vibrant and dull, chased after him in endless tangled swirls. They created both simple and intricate designs in his wake. A simple canvas with accidentally spilt paint sold for millions, as long as his name was scribbled on the bottom right corner.

  
He was one of the few that made millions through simple art forms, yet kept a humble life among the few he called friends. He surrounded himself with their laughter and tears. With their screams of fun and silent filled fights. He was there for it all. Even now as he passed them by without a word uttered, as if he weren’t there. His small hand gently caressed a petal belonging to that of a beautiful flower comprised of purples and blues. The delicate velvet drifted from between his fingers as he moved along to the next row of vases, each more beautiful than the last.

  
For the night belonged to him, as he did it. For the blacks and greys that kept him company while the vibrant shades of life dipped below the horizon at dusk and rose at dawn. Yet, as the sun warmed his face upon looking on at the crowd, he couldn't help the smile that graced his features. How he wished for a sketchbook, his hand itching to capture the magnificent image before him. The blacks of dresses and suits standing out against the dark green grass and the bright oranges, blues, purples, and pinks of dusk just peaking out.

  
The way the flowers swayed in the slight breeze made things appear more lively, even if the cries and sorrow filled voices were all that were to be heard for miles around. The unusual colors, normally used to celebrate one's achievements, seemed sickly perfect for the occasion. As if the day wasn’t full of loved ones mourning their own who’d been ripped away without warning. But rather another one of his many achievements. His attention had been pulled to the small stage placed to his right as a man he recognized began speaking into a mic. The familiar voice drifted towards him like that of a lullaby, but no words reached his ears. The abundance of people standing around quickly found a place among the endless rows of seats shortly before the voice came to an end.

  
A second voice drew the crowd's attention to a golden box resting on the stage. Beside it a stand holding a picture, he deemed as himself, now held a flower wreath in remembrance. As the speeches came to end, a moment of silence was held.

  
For he was an artist. For he spent his millions on paying off his friends college debts, giving to charities, and paying off houses for homeless. For he struggled to find ways to put his endless wonders to paper and canvases. For he was a soul taken before his time.

  
For I am Huang Renjun. A 23 year old artist killed in a robbery gone wrong. For I am a painting on display as my loved ones mourn me. For I watch on as my body is lowered into the earth for an eternity of rest and a legacy well remembered beyond my years.

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this 2/3/19, finished it 3/9/19, and forgot about it until today 5/19/19. 
> 
> Prompt used: Write about a funeral from the dead person's viewpoint 
> 
> It's not much, but I like how it turned out


End file.
